


what of the aching hearts

by Naiesu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naiesu/pseuds/Naiesu
Summary: “Words of regret die at the back of his throat, pushing, pulling, painful when they get stuck. There are so many things he could say at this moment, can think of every single one, of the memory that comes with each or the ones that he wishes did—ma vhenan, I am honored to have been the one you claimed as yours,I love you.”~my idea of the intimacies of what happened just before the inquisitor loses their hand. couldnt stop thinking about the da4 trailer we got last night, so i figured id post a little something from back when the trespasser dlc first released
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	what of the aching hearts

They had been fighting, bickering like children, ignoring the other even though they had no time to do so. Things had started out so nice, with so much hope. Dorian coming back from Tevinter after two years, two years of letters, two years of yearning, two years of promises. But they had met and spoken with tension, an obvious wall between them wedged there by time and countless miles of land.

Instead of talking it out, they did what they did best—pretended it wasn’t happening. Now they are paying for it.

Cael has never regret anything more in his life. When the ache in his hand starts to act up he thinks he can stomach it, _just a little bit longer_. Then suddenly it isn’t an ache anymore, instead a sharp flare of pain, and he grits his teeth. He can still move while it fusses, it doesn’t take concentration to run. And then he is on his knees, skin rent apart in bursts of crackling green energy up to his shoulder, a cacophony of noise bouncing between the ruins.

_That’s me_ , he thinks dully, _that’s me_ , but he can’t bring himself to quiet.

Hands on his face, his neck, his upper arms, _“Stop.”_ The movement stops when Cael speaks, and he’s worried it sounds more like a broken sob. The power of the Anchor continues to flare, expanding, and he can’t concentrate enough to discharge it.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

It’s Dorian’s voice. Of course. Cael’s clothing and gloves are too thick to see through, and he’s doing everything he can to suppress the mark, so it’s likely Dorian has no idea that’s what’s ailing him. He wishes they hadn’t fought these past few days, thinks of all the things they could’ve done instead. Walked the palace grounds, listened to Dorian gossip about the people there and in Tevinter, enjoyed the spa, cropped up trouble, and enjoyed the wyvern-down bed Dorian had joked about on their first day back together.

He can feel himself crying now, both from the pain and the yearnings of one living on borrowed time. The mark is slipping through his grasp, creeping up his neck. Dorian’s hands come up to cup his face, thumbs stroking under his eyes, and he sobs openly, aware of their audience but unable to care. Cassandra and Varric wouldn’t interrupt unless something of absolute necessity happened, and Cole and Bull wouldn’t do more than make a few off comments.

“Cael, what’s wrong,” Dorian says. It is no longer a question. He is staring, eyes hard, the lines of his face tense. Cael doesn’t want this to be the last look he sees on his face, and he drops his head, staring at his knees.

Dorian looks down with him, and both of their eyes find Cael’s left hand—wrapped in thick leathers, but dripping, green peeking between the seams. Cael groans, low and pained, when his hand is grabbed, trying to keep from falling unconscious as his glove is jerked off. He can barely keep the mark contained _, has to, I have to_.

Cassandra gasps, and he’s dimly aware of Varric cursing, of Bull taking a step forward to follow Cole.

“Cael,” Dorian says. His voice is thick, strained with emotion. His hands are in fists in Cael’s clothes, and he wants to say something, but all of his thoughts are going toward the mark.

Cole is upon them both, but Dorian’s sole focus is the busted skin of Cael’s hand and the garish green glow emanating from inside.

“Words of regret die at the back of his throat, pushing, pulling, painful when they get stuck. There are so many things he could say at this moment, can think of every single one, of the memory that comes with each or the ones that he wishes did—ma vhenan, I am honored to have been the one you claimed as yours, _I love you_.” Cole’s voice is soft, as reverent at the end as Cael’s own thoughts. He can feel Dorian’s hands fisting his armor so tight it’s pulling him forward.

Cole jerks his head up then, when Cael can feel his control slipping so fast it’s impossible to catch it again. The Anchor is grasping with hungry fingers, licking like fire against his nerves and prying his flesh apart with bloodied nails. It’s tearing his throat open, and his vision tinges green, unsettling. He must be quite a sight.

Cael stumbles away, then, trying to distance himself before the energy becomes too excessive. They still have quite a ways to go, after all, and his party can still go on even if the mark destroys him.

Dorian launches up, trying to chase after him at the same time Cole stumbles forward, but Bull catches them both by the collar, hoisting them back.

The Anchor spits, angry, and produces a thin noise. He grabs his arm, trying to keep it down even as it’s being forced above his head, dangling him in the air when it finally hooks itself into a weak spot in the veil. The look on Dorian’s face makes his heart ache even more than his hand. There is no way he could hear Cael over the Anchor now. He mouths the words, hoping the mark and the shadows it’s throwing against the ruins aren’t hiding his face.

_"I’m sorry.”_


End file.
